


Twigs and Matts

by WolffyLuna



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Hair Brushing, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), hair petting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25013368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: Dorothea helps Ferdinand with his hair, once pre-meditated and once not.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39
Collections: Little Black Dress Exchange 2020





	Twigs and Matts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KelpieChaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpieChaos/gifts).



> I hope you like this!

Dorothea walked off to retrieve Ferdinand for lunch.

‘Retrieve’ very much was the best word for it. He would get so focused on something, and fail to remember that ‘eating’ was a thing he needed to do, noble ideals be damned, and someone would have to fetch him from where ever he was. His dedication to improvement was... heartening. Arguably, an Inspiration To Them All. Also occasionally, a pain to deal with, Dorothea would admit. Not that it wasn’t charming as well.

The first place she checked was the equestrian training grounds—a field surrounded by hedges that they had paid a local farmer for the use of—and there he was, drilling his jousting.

He galloped his mare towards straw dummies, making sure she stayed straight on course till the last moment, where she sprang to the side.

“Ferdie!” she shouted. (One of the many advantages of operatic training: she could _really_ project her voice when she wanted to.)

He looked over his shoulder at her, and wheeled his horse around, taking no more thought than it would have taken to turn around on foot, like she was an extension of himself.

Having half a ton of snorting warhorse barrelling towards you at high speed was an... _exciting_ experience, but she’d got used to it by now. You had to, around Ferdinand.

Ferdie stopped his horse in front of her. “What do you need me for?”

“Lunch is nearly ready.”

“Oh! Thank you for informing me. I just need to cool Whiskey down, and untack her—”

Dorothea smiled. “—Which is why I came to tell you half an hour before it was served.”

He stopped his to-do list ramble mid-stream. “That is very thoughtful of you! You have my sincere thanks.”

She smiled. “Don’t mention it.”

Ferdinand made to start walking Whiskey off, when Dorothea spotted it.

He had a twig in his hair, from one of the hedgerows. He must have just ridden too close, and got it caught.

“Hang on a second, you’ve got something—” She stood up on her tippy toes to reach it, and gently pulled the twig free. Her fingers brushed along his hair, just a glancing touch, just enough to be able to feel that his hair was hair and not linen threads.

She held her woody prize aloft. “There. Wouldn’t want that to mar your noble beauty.”

Ferdinand flushed red. He was not someone who necessarily blushed often, but he had no way to conceal it when he did. “Thank you,” he said—shocked? embarrassed?—into being short-winded.

It took her a second to realise how forward she’d been. Well, it was _barely_ forward. They were closer now, closer than they had been in their academy days, before they had sorted out their shared history.

Close enough that fixing something like should have been no big deal. Back in the opera, they were tucking away a rebellious strand of someone else’s hair, or brushing away a make-up smudge. She hadn’t quite recalibrated to the wider personal space of the nobility, who take up the social landscape like they did actual land.

And she hadn’t quite recalibrated for _Ferdie_ , who read books about etiquette and virtue with the same seriousness that priests took the words of the Goddess. And who had presumably not expected the person he was courting to do something as ‘brazen’ as touch his hair. (She was reasonably sure at this point the thing he was doing was courting. She did know a thing or two about the noble marriage market.)

She tried to think to something to defuse the awkwardness, but Ferdinand had already walked his horse off, still red faced.

***

That night, Dorothea awoke to the sound of crashing and cries of alarm.

_Battle._

She clambered her way out of her tent. The sooner she was out, the sooner she could see what was going on. The sooner she could help, defend herself, defend other people—

It was still dark out, the moon covered by clouds, everything lit dark blue and grey where they weren’t backlit orange by the fires.

In her haste, she stumbled out onto someone.

They both had a moment of surprise, recognition—or rather lack of recognition.

The person in front of her was dressed in tattered Kingdom livery. A remnant of a routed troop, perhaps. But an enemy nonetheless.

And he realised she was an enemy, too.

She quickly gathered magic, to push him back, push him away and give her the space to be able to actually hurt him.

She didn’t have the time to.

Hoofs thundered across the hard ground, and a massive dark shape sent the enemy flying.

“Are you alright, Dorothea?” It was hard to see in the dark, but Ferdinand seemed to be riding bare back in his pyjamas, breastplate hastily laced on top.

“I’m fine,” she said, a little shocked.

Ferdinand nodded, and turned back to face his battalion that galloped to catch up. “Keep harrying them, make sure they do not know what has hit them!”

They were (somewhat muffled and sleepy) cheers from behind him.

A shout rang out across the encampment, Caspar’s voice: “They’re trying to take the mages!”

Ferdinand’s head snapped towards the sound.

Dorothea danced for him. She’d broken it down to the bare essentials, the absolute minimum to get the revitalising effect, have it happen quickly in the heat of battle. A spin, a half kick, a swing of the hips, and the shimmer of magic that followed.

“I thank you!” Ferdinand shouted, as he charged off again into the night.

***

The attack passed quickly, the Kingdom brigands fleeing across the farmland and into the hills.

A portion of the Empire’s forces followed them, including Ferdinand’s cavalry. They harried them further into the wilds, or were too focused on their prey to see how far they had run, depending on who you asked.

It was only as the hours passed and dawn broke and yet they still had not returned that the Empire’s forces started to worry. Did they chase the brigands, or were _they_ chased by them? They could just still be harrying them, some suggested, or maybe they just got lost?—

Dorothea doubted those explanations. She wanted to believe them, she really did—even if they did not reflect well on Ferdinand’s tactical abilities. But that was the reason she doubted. If Ferdinand was there, yes, they could have charged off too far, but he would have brought them back before they got lost or cut off.

At noon, a messenger from the brigands walked up to the camp, bearing a ransom demand.

It was understandable, Dorothea thought. Not right, but there was a logic to it. They were soldiers without a kingdom to fund them, and autumn winds hinted at the winter soon to come-- they would be going hungry sooner rather than later. And it was well known that the Emperor valued her soldiers and her inner circle highly. They had got the Prime Minister, even! Think of the food his ransom could buy—no, the riches! They would never have to fight, never have to work, ever again.

She shook her head when she heard the news.

The poor fools.

It was true that the Emperor put a high price on her soldiers and even higher one on her inner circle.

High enough that she had strong opinions on those that captured them for ransom: no ransom would be paid except in the captor’s blood.

Byleth lead the rescue party.

They did not select her. She understood it—their strategy did not require a dancer, and they needed at least some support personnel to stay back at the camp in case it was attacked.

She understood it, but she didn’t _like_ it.

She did her best not to worry the skin off her lips as she waited for the three days it took to find them.

***

The rescue party returned, the former captives in tow, with celebration and cries of victory and ‘welcome back!’ The noise could be heard right across the campsite, the whoops and claps and cheers carrying right through. Dorothea walked through the gathering crowd. They parted for her—perks of being in the Emperor’s inner circle. 

Ferdie was near the front, smiling and waving and doing his best impression of the grateful comrade in good spirits.

She had to give him credit for his acting skills. He did a good job at that role.

But she had a trained eye. She could tell a true smile from a fake one, could tell a show made for an audience from a genuine expression. And she knew Ferdie. She knew all his tells, the way he held tension in his jaw, the way his eyes were a little too wide when he covered pain with fake cheer.

And he was leading his mare wrong. Heavens above, she’d definitely been spending too much time with him if she could spot _that_. But he had an arm draped over the top point of his horse’s shoulder, and was walking behind her head. She’d heard him politely but firmly chewing out recruits for doing the same.

He was doing his best to pretend he was standing straight as well, and wasn’t using his horse’s momentum to pull himself forward, that he was walking under his own power, that he was leading and not being lead—but it was easy enough to see if you weren’t distracted by his smile and his effusive compliments to his rescuers.

She made her way to his side. “Are you alright?”

“Ah, Dorothea! I am doing quite well, all the better for my comrades’ help,” he said, with an air of being rehearsed.

“You sure?” She didn’t want to push too hard; she understood the need to maintain an image. And she understood the need to act for strangers and keep you true feelings a little more guarded. But still. She had to try.

“A few cuts and scrapes, and a bit more excitement than is ideal, but overall everything is going quite good.” And now he was starting to improvise, and it was also starting to show.

Linhardt stood in front of him, looking doubtful. “I am going to need to check that.”

He waved him off with the arm he wasn’t using to support himself. “Check my people first. I am not even walking wounded, and there are those who need help more than I.”

Linhardt managed to look even more doubtful.

“It is a noble’s duty to let their people be treated first.”

Linhardt usually had an earful to give about ‘noble duty,’ but he seemed to realise trying to talk Ferdinand down would require _effort_ and he probably had better things to do. He walked off to discuss with Hubert who needed healing.

(Hubert spoke quietly, but Dorothea was fairly sure she heard Ferdinand’s name.)

“Do you want me to take her off you?” She held a hand out for his horse’s reins. “Give you one less thing to worry about.”

Ferdinand looked torn for a second, before handing the reins over to you. “Thank you very much for the offer. If it would not trouble you, would you let the grooms know to check her over? She came up lame on the journey back.”

She didn’t look lame. And if she had been, and Ferdinand had still leaned on her—he would not have done so if he had any other choice. She did her best to suppress her frown at that line of thought.

“I’ll make sure they give her a good look over.”

She lead her towards the stables, as one of Linhardt’s people took over trying to convince Ferdie to go to the medical tent.

***

The rumour mill circulated.

She tried to take her mind off things, focus on practicing her dance, so she could be more help in future battles, but the grapevine still reached her.

Linhardt, a firm believer in the medical benefits or rest and not running around before you are ready and making your healer lose sleep, said that he would only let Ferdinand out of his care if he at least attempted to nap. Ferdinand grumbled about it in the most chipper and noble manner possible, and proceeded to sleep like the dead for two hours.

His horse was, as far as anyone could tell, definitely not lame. It took very close inspection to find a very minor stone bruise on her foot, and even then, it was the sort of injury that would have resolved itself in half an hour or less, even if she was walking.

After Ferdinand awoke, he went to his tent. He stayed there even during supper, having his food delivered to him.

All of that was concerning, but it was last one that concerned her the most. Even he could be exhausted and need to rest. Even he, who knew his horse well, could misjudge something like that, especially if she was actually lame at one point. But he was an unstoppable extrovert. He wouldn’t miss the chance to bond over food for anything except either the chance to bond over tea or something dire happening.

She went to go and check on him. Mostly for her own peace of mind—but she did have reason to be worried. Being held captive would be rough on anyone, even if the captors were the sweetest gentlest lambs. Which—well, Ferdie was definitely injured. She doubted the captors were sweet harmless bunnies, despite his protestations.

***

“Ferdie?”

He sat cross-legged on the floor of his tent, hunched over. It was strange to see him like that—he always stood like he had a book balanced on his head, like how her old dance teacher at the opera had taught her how to walk. He looked like a wooden frame that had all its screws loosened and was starting to sag.

In one hand he held a hand mirror—inlaid with the von Aegir crest, a hairline crack snaking up the bottom—and in the other her held a boar’s hair brush.

“I really should get my hair cut. It is getting a bit long.” Which was understatement of the year.

He sounded like he looked—tired and hunched in on himself and unhappy.

She stepped closer.

The top layer of his hair floated in fuzzy, frizzy strands—revealing the matt at the back of his neck underneath it. It was quite impressive, considering how little time it had had to form.

“You don’t have to, if it’s just for _that_.” She touched the matt—which if he was a bit more his usual self, Ferdie would probably flush at. It was large, but fairly loose, as matts went. Easy enough to deal with, with some time and patience. “I know some tricks.” When she was younger, back when she barely had time to look after her looks, she’d learned the ‘neat trick’ that if you braid your hair, you don’t have to brush it as often—but if you left it too long, you got matts that could be used as improvised weapons. She had learned how to _deal_ with matts.

“I would not want to waste your time.”

“You wouldn’t be—if you want the help?”

“I can always cut it later,” he mused.

“This’d just give you some more time to think about it. Stop you from having to do it for _just_ a matt.”

He thought for a second, then nodded.

She sat down behind him, and took the brush from his hand.

She brushed slowly, starting at the bottom, barely skimming the matt, strand by strand liberating the hair. “Let me know if I accidentally pull, okay?”

“You are not,” Ferdie said. He was relaxing, slowly, his shoulders dropping by millimetres with every stroke of the brush.

She took that as a victory. “Still, let me know if I do.” Her main goal was to get rid of the matt. Her secondary goal was to get him to actually relax.

She got into a slow, gentle rhythm of brushing. Brush, brush, pause. Eventually, it got to the point where brushing was not breaking it up fully. She used her fingers to tease the tangled strands apart.

The hair matt—well, it felt like matted hair. Coarse. Slightly greasy. But she was still struck by the awareness that she was touching Ferdinand’s hair, touching it sustainably, not just in passing. She wasn’t touching it in its best state, but it was still—intimate. Maybe even more so, considering the mass it was in.

She pulled it apart enough the brushing was once again effective.

Ferdinand’s head slowly dropped forward, till he was holding it up with just a hand on his cheek. It was slightly awkward to deal with, but she didn’t mention it. He looked so tired, and so relaxed, and she didn’t want to interrupt that. She could just reach more forward, and work around it.

It didn’t take that long to deal with the matt, all in all. It was a matt, but it was a loose one, one that broke up with patience and a little effort. She ran her fingers through his hair—finger combing it, checking there were no residual tangles that she had missed. ...but also taking a moment to feel it. “All done!”

He turned to face her, as much as he could with his back to her. “Thank you so much; I appreciate the effort.”

“Oh don’t worry, It was—” she was about to finish that sentence with ‘ _my pleasure_ ’, and it was both true, and the accepted response to what he had just said, but in that context—well, it was a bit much. Maybe a bit too revealing. “—fine. Not too much work.”

“I still appreciate it, I really do.” He sighed, and leaned back against her shoulder, before realising what he’d done and bolting back to vertical. “My apologies, that was very forward of me, I—”

She laid a hand on his shoulder, and gently pulled him back. “That’s also fine. We’re close, you had a hard few days, I’ve got a shoulder. I can’t begrudge you borrowing it.”

“I—thank you,” he said, as he settled against her shoulder again. He had bags under his eyes, and his hair was a frizzy mess (no thanks to her, she’d admit), but he looked relaxed, which was a damn sight better than he had been earlier today. She’d take at least partial credit for that.

She finger-combed his hair again, partially in an attempt to get it more organised, partially to see if it would make him relax even more.

He closed his eyes, and exhaled.

That was a success.


End file.
